


the great advantage of being alive

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Baskerville, intimacy in the Cross Keys Inn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is aware London should be present but is more concerned with the fact that it seems to be missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the great advantage of being alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScopesMonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/gifts).



> Written for a fic swap, this piece was inspired by the prompt: "He needed data. But his data was wrong. All the details he’d cultivated were useless. London was gone. No. London was still there, he just wasn't in it. And if he wasn't in London, he had to be somewhere."
> 
> Title from e.e. cummings.

Aged wooden flooring. Frigid against bare (flat) feet with curling toes and weak arches. Sherlock followed the translucent vapour trail of candle smoke, spine ramrod straight like a pillar of salt. He rubbed the heels of his palms into the deep hollows of his orbital sockets, tugging at the corners of his eyes. Cautiously slouched against the wall. Crept away from the sooty mound of paper, flame debriding the fragile paper of its ink. As he tugged at the loose belt of his dressing gown, Sherlock felt the expansion and contraction of his lungs with each breath. Forced himself to focus on inhalation and exhalation rather than his simmering unease that he no longer knew his present physical location.

Flat to the wall (uneven wallpaper texture, raised over poorly layered paint, worn soft along the corner where hands lingered) with his head ducked to avoid the abruptly, impossibly low ceiling. Empty fireplace with an empty mantle. Lacking accrued detritus of two men sharing one living space. Sherlock rushed to the hearth and upset the fire tools. Withdrew the fire iron. Rooted through the cinders for any suggestion of ownership or residents with deplorable habits of flicking cigarette butts into the crackling fire. Sessile oak wood with traces of pedunculate oak. Damp earthiness of masonry. He let the iron clatter to the floor to better crush a sample of ash between his thumb and index fingertip.

With only pinpricks of light from electric lamps at the front desk and the rear corner of the sitting room (and his will-o-wisp trail) to illuminate his surroundings Sherlock peered down at his feet. Subtle undercurrent of paranoia. Full body undulation as muscles clenched in response. Incremental acceleration of heart rate. Cold sweat at the (exposed) nape of his neck. Sherlock moved to collapse in his Le Corbusier, an architectural roost of steel and leather. Recoiled from the unfamiliarity of both armchairs before him. Neither were his. Neither were John’s. Minute shock from not recognizing the seating options caused the inexplicable fires to dissipate.

No line of reasoning presented itself for further illumination. His surroundings were discernible but lacked significance of home. Sherlock was aware of uncorroborated fear crouched in his nerves. Felt the profound absence of John as though he should be permanently affixed to Sherlock side. Even in a compromised state he knew Lestrade should be present (although Sherlock count not place why the Detective Inspector chose to go by his middle name rather than the name on his identification). He needed data. But his data was wrong. All the details he’d cultivated were useless. London was gone. No. London was still there, he just wasn't in it. And if he wasn't in London, he had to be somewhere.

Sifting through the charred wood, he found nothing. No indication of who occupied the space in which he found himself. He swept his hands over the mantle in the treacle-thick darkness. His palms smeared ash up his temples as he pushed hair from his eyes. Fists clenched in perturbation. Deep, reverberating growls of a territorial canid. Sherlock staggered back — collapsed onto the arm of a chair — unable to shake the conviction that he was being hunted. Recognition pooled in the pit of his stomach. A hound (a nightmare; a childhood dread-beast) lurking in a hollow.

It followed him back from the Devil’s valley to the four walls sheltering him and John. Impossible. Shots fired into the trees, hallucinogenic mists, and a threat neutralized, yet still the hound stalked toward him wearing the manic grin of a consulting criminal. Straight human teeth (with elongated canines) lined the jaws of the massive beast as drool slathered past its lips. Dark hooded eyes devoid of sclera. Hackles raised. Distorted oil-spill shimmering rankled the fur at its throat and along its tail.

Sherlock reached for the fire iron. Missed. Missed again. Finally gained purchase on the metal. Brandished the hooked end and fell against the second chair. Winded himself (air torn from his lungs) on the sturdy backrest. Diaphragm aching, breath whistling between his teeth and through his nose, Sherlock tumbled to the floor in an ungainly mess of limbs and soot. (A snorting gasp as someone awoke down the hall.) His chest vibrated (hyperventilating) as the hound sat on its haunches.

“This is all quite boring. How far have you fallen down the rabbit hole? Look at yourself,” the hound chided, malice in its lilting Irish voice. It licked its lips. Indulgently picked at the gap between its front teeth with one claw. “Soiled as if you tumbled down the flue itself.”

Sherlock gripped the fire iron in both hands. Withheld a particularly cutting retort as that would only indulge the chimeric hound.

“I am very real. As real as the adrenaline careening through your meat suit and the aerosol hallucinatory delirium clinging — now you see, how droll — to the last reserves of your decorum.”

Sherlock wielded the fire poker like a foil. Coup de taille. Snarling from the hound. Passe arrière. (Heavy footsteps against the carpet runner leading to the sitting room.) Undeterred, the hound rose on its hind legs with jaws gaping. Passata-sotto. His strike glanced off the hound’s ribs. (A familiar voice. Voices. Two men grabbing for his wrists.) Sherlock felt his elbow buckle and he collapsed to the floor. Vulnerable. Covered in soot. Hands on his face, in his hair, at the pulse in his throat and over the pounding calamity in his ribcage. John drawing him to his chest (a bold move considering he was the more concerned party in regards to keeping their affections hidden from outsiders). One small palm at the elastic waistband of his sleep pants. Instructions whispered in his ear to breathe against the hand on his stomach.

“No, through your mouth. Sherlock, listen. Slow breaths. Through your— Perfect. Fantastic.”

“You said he wasn’t a snorer. Didn’t peg him for a sleep walker.”

Sudden dizziness. Tingling in his hands. Low-grade nausea. Sherlock coughed around the tightness of his lungs.

“He normally isn’t. So sorry for all of this. We can pay for the damages—”

“Why does he think— I’m a snorer?” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. Sherlock took a fluttering inhale, trachea straining to function regardless of aching muscles. “‘m not a snorer.”

“Nothing a bit of elbow grease couldn’t take care of. No harm done.”

“John, John, John,” Sherlock pleaded, “make him— leave.”

“You are being exceptionally rude. Considering I just found you on the floor. At half three in the morning. In the lobby of an inn.”

Sherlock leaned further into John’s throat. “Don’t care.”

He wished the insufferable owner would understand his presence was unneeded. Garret? Gareth? Some variant of the sort. Sherlock could not bring himself to be bothered enough to vocalize his displeasure. Continued breathing from his stomach, watching the idle rise and fall of John’s hand against the bare strip of skin. Goosebumps rushed up his arms. His jaw clenched as he shuddered. Muscles relaxing from the prolonged tension of hallucinating. Sherlock risked a glance over his shoulder. Human footprints and flecks of ash leading from the grate to where John found him (mortifyingly) in the aftermath of fencing an incorporeal hound.

“Do you know where we are?” John’s ring finger grazed the exposed trail of fine hair at his navel.

“Dartmoor. After a case with . . . Knight. Henry Knight.”

“Where are we now? The name of the town.”

Head still swimming (although the vertigo was less severe), Sherlock let his eyes slip closed as he took counsel in his memory. One final, deep breath from his stomach chased away tremors in his arms. “Give me a moment.”

Hands wedged beneath his armpits and hoisted him to his knees. One arm wrapped around his back, John levered Sherlock to full height where they slouched together like saplings. They navigated past the owner (a knowing grin stretched across his face), narrowly avoided a woman leaning from her room to berate them for the raucous noise, and upon reaching their room promptly collapsed into the nearest of the two beds. Perpendicular to the mattresses. Ankles limp. Feet dangling. Sherlock rolled to press his mouth to John’s.

“Don’t— Wait. Tell me where we are.” John avoided his hands (nervous desperation for tactile stimulation and verbal reassurance).

“Room six at the Cross Keys Inn. Grimpen Village.” Sherlock bent his knees to his chest and gravitated further toward John. “Owner apologized to you when we arrived. Presumably about not having a smaller, more intimate room available. He must have called it a double, this seems like a dated establishment. Satisfied?”

“For now. Yes. You do realize you've just had a panic attack after suffering a minor relapse into the same paranoia from Dewer’s Hollow?”

“Of course, John.”

“Drug must have been in the material of your coat. Or your scarf,” John said, moving to leave the bed. Attention noticeably drawn to the hook on the wall where Sherlock’s coat and scarf hung presumably innocuous. “How are you feeling? Breathing alright? Dizzy? Thirsty?”

“Fine, yes, no, no. Water. Cold.” Threading his arms through the gap between John’s underarm and side, Sherlock latched on like a limpet. Breathed in the smell of John’s skin. Fidgeted in delight as John stroked the collar of his sleep shirt (inside out) and pressed kisses to his nose.

“There you are, usual bossy self. Thought I’d lost you there. You can get that drink yourself.”

Sherlock relaxed into dead weight against John’s chest. Marvelled at the way John manhandled their bodies into horizontal comfort without complaint. John pulled away (“No, come back.” “Let go of my shirt!”) only to return with the second pillow and duvet. Clever, luminous John.

“Do you still want some water?”

Sherlock buried his face into the mattress.

“It might help you come down from— Earlier.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just prete—”

“It was a moment of weakness which passed and I wish to no longer speak of it. Unless absolutely necessary. Which it is not at this moment.”

John cocooned them in soft blankets. Failed to move away before Sherlock emerged suddenly from beneath the duvet and clipped John’s chin with the crown of his skull. His hands fluttered at the injured jawbone. His mouth lingered on the (soon to be bruised) flesh. With soporific attention, John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He leaned forward — slowly — and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. Neither moved for a breath. Close-mouthed. Noses brushing. Just enough pressure for Sherlock to tighten his grip on John’s bicep. He felt more than heard the noise John made low in his throat. Eyes closed. Inhale. The faintest edge of teeth on his bottom lip as Sherlock shifted hesitantly.

“Let me at least check your heart rate.”

Sherlock rolled away, eyes hooded and scarcely able to focus. “What would be the use now that we’ve been kissing? What next, would you like to check my pupils? I can assure you they are dilated. My temperature is elevated due to the nest you’ve created for us and grip you have around my waist, which is also compromising my pulse.”

“You’re compromising my patience here.”

“Then let go,” Sherlock complained (without conviction, hoping John would hear the false tone).

Both of John’s arms coiled around Sherlock’s waist. One hand stroked the line of his chest while the other patted his thigh. Nestling back into the cradle of John’s hips, Sherlock thrilled in the warmth of John’s breath against his flesh. In being comforted without being coddled.

“They know we’ve been sleeping in the same bed.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock yawned. “Why should this be a problem?”

“I had hoped they wouldn’t know. Especially not at four in the morning. Considering how we deliberately unmade the other bed last night.”

“How you unmade the bed. I can see how the unnecessary disorder would be troubling to your rigid military sensibilities.”

“Please try to sleep.”

“Of course, John.”

“Don’t wake me up before my alarm.”

“Of course not, John.”

He could feel the stretch of John’s lips against the back of his neck. Smiling like a love-sick fool. Sherlock laced his fingers between those splayed over his chest. Kissed the valleys between John’s knuckles. Considered the texture of work-toughened skin, imperfections and soft scars, tendons and veins. He knew it was extremely probable they both would see sharp canines, mine detonations, and wide black eyes in night terrors. It was also extremely probable he would wake to the solidity of John in bed, or across the room, or down the hall from his own body. Sherlock wondered if John’s goodness might transfer to his body through mouth to mouth respiration. If John could make him better in ways which were not possible to repair. Sherlock vaguely hated the calmness with which John had dispelled his fear. He wished John had expressed disquiet in his concern. He conceded to the infallible foundation of John’s devotion and closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [flamiekitten](http://archiveofourown.org/users/flamiekitten/pseuds/flamiekitten) for being my beta reader and Britpicker in remarkably short notice.  
> Please read ScopesMonkey's response piece for this exchange, [Home for the Holidays.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1047247)


End file.
